Hope You See Right Through Me
by Heaven Star
Summary: Schuldig let his guard down and must now face the consequences - or run away from them - but maybe there's hope for him yet. One-shot, rated for language. Mild Crawford/Schuldig.


**Hope You See Right Through Me**

**Disclaimer: **_"Weiss Kreuz"_, its characters, major concepts and related ideas are the property of Project Weiss and Takehito Koyasu. This unauthorised work of fanfiction is intended for personal entertainment purposes and not for profit; please, don't sue. If you happen to have any rights to the anime described here and find the posting of this fanfiction offensive or harmful, please contact me, and I will be happy to remove it.

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><p>He ran the length of the street and cursed – he was fast, but when he needed it, <em>desperately<em> needed it, he wasn't fast enough. Night had already fallen but the streetlights cut through enough for him to be able to make his way around corners, behind buildings. He just wanted to lose himself in the warren of apartment blocks near theirs. He had to stop doing this – _knew_ he had to get a grip. But he couldn't, so he ran.

He pulled up near an intersection, breathing a little hard and pulled his now loose bandana from his hair, letting it fall forward, riotous into his eyes. He shoved a shaking hand into his pants pocket, normally nimble fingers fumbling on the edges of the carton. He scowled and wrenched it out, went about lighting a cigarette, trying to just _focus_ on something.

Something other than the situation he was running away from.

Taking a long drag he let his eyes blur and longed to be able to hold his breath long enough that he didn't have to know about it. Wished he could be reckless enough to willingly let the world in and pummel him into insignificance – leaving nothing of him left to have to face the repercussions of what he'd done. He was already wavering close to it and he knew it, his own emotional state made everything else shaky and tenuous as well. For as melodramatic as he was, it was rare that he was shaken up enough by his own emotions to threaten letting go. External situations could do it, if he was open to them, but he could count on one hand how many times he had been able to do it to himself.

He exhaled and tried not to think. He laughed at himself. As if he could ever _not_ think.

Except that moments before he _hadn't _and then—

Cutting himself off he stalked further along the street. Stressed and jittery - torn between left over adrenaline and guilt. Oh, he was guilty of many, many things, but this one was brand new.

It was lurking in his thoughts - thoughts which were refusing to be pushed down. Thoughts, no, _memories_ of what had just happened kept trying to loop in his head, taunting him.

He had prayed – actually _prayed_ – that his shields would hold and they had. Even in the most intimate and vulnerable of moments, they had held. Saving him time and time again from just this situation and letting him play along with the dance that he _knew_ had to exist. He knew there was no way around it; that it was how it was and he should be glad of it.

The telepath continued along the street, thinking that drowning himself in drink or other people's minds was becoming increasingly more appealing step by step, except he couldn't trust himself with even _that _now. He couldn't even control himself – what he had said and done in a supposedly safe environment—

He shuddered at the thought of what might happen if he tried to make it all worse. No. Control was the way to go. Walls up and it never happened. If he was insistent, _determined_ enough, he could make it true. He could save this, make it like it never happened.

He breathed deep. Counting his breaths and trying to reinforce his own reality. Back to basics and baby steps til he could trust himself again.

One… two…

What if he was looking for him right now? What if he actually—?

He swore and took another drag on his cigarette. So fucking rattled he couldn't even _breathe_.

Maybe he couldn't let this go, maybe he'd broken it. Of _course_ he'd fucking broken it. It wasn't as if it was overly reliable to begin with.

Okay, _he_ wasn't overly reliable.

The other part of this problem scheduled the goddamn dishwasher.

It'd be easier to let it go, to let himself be let go – just walk away from the mess and be done with it. It _had _to be better than walking back in there and pretending what had just happened hadn't. Better than trying to pretend that they could pick up and keep going like they always had, that this didn't change a thing. It's not like he hadn't tried before - just to see how far he could run before he couldn't take it anymore and came back. There was something sickly satisfying in pushing that angle – seeing how much he could pull away, seeing if he could get any response at all. Any sign of life or a heart. He always pulled up short before he hurt himself by seeing that there was nothing beneath it all.

The street opened up onto a wide concrete path, bordered by low ornate walls and trees. He walked over to one of the walls and leant on it, staring out at the lights behind the trees. He could see a freeway, with ceaseless streams of light dragging along the length of it. He lost himself in the pattern for a moment, so quick he never felt the peace before it was gone.

The sick thing about it all was that he had wanted to do it. Even now he wished, some fucking naïve part of him _hoped_, that everything he knew was wrong. He hoped he was a terrible liar. He hoped he was fucking terrible at reading people and situations, that his perception was so off that all these ways out he was dreaming up didn't have to exist. That for _once_ he could tru—

He hadn't actually been about to even _think_ that word, had he?

Jesus. This was way too far gone.

But still…

He hoped Crawford had been seeing through him the whole time. The whole fucking time and hadn't just been playing along for his own amusement. He hoped that when he had been there, lying in bed, sweaty and blissfully tired that when he had slipped, when he had been so comfortable that those goddamn words had wandered out of his lips unchecked by _any _logic that Crawford had known the whole time.

He hoped that the whole damn time Crawford had seen that what they were was a lie. That the whole detached, just physical, no strings attached, all professional thing was just a charade. That he somehow knew they both needed it – okay, that _he_ needed it – to feel safe. He was gutless after all, needed to be able to run away and cover himself with whatever sins he could find to hide his feelings – not that he _had _any! - to feel safe.

How long did he think he could keep it up? How long did he think Crawford would _let _him keep up with it?

And then he felt it - a sense that he couldn't describe in anything _but _memories. That presence beside him while they spent countless hours in meetings. That subtle cologne that he had never, ever smelt on anyone else and the bastard would never say what it was. That figure out of the corner of his eye, never slouching and always thinking that Schuldig didn't know that he was being watched, always keeping an eye out; that sense that when any of these things were nearby he was _safe,_ he was _home, _he was—

Crawford had come to stand next to him while he hadn't been paying attention, staring out at the freeway beside him, his face unreadable. Then, he reached out an arm and wrapped it around Schuldig's waist and pulled him across the last few inches into his side.

The bottom of Schuldig's stomach fell out.

He hesitated for a moment before dropping his head into Crawford's side, breathing him in, letting himself drown, finally.

…

Bleach? Really?

"You had time to put on a new shirt?"

"Of course I did," Crawford commented, quietly.

Schuldig sighed and closed his eyes a small smile playing on his lips even as he sulked.

Of course he did.

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><p><strong>AN: **This fic was partly inspired by the Christina Perri song "Arms". Also, many thanks to Jayden and Verwelkt for beta-ing this fic!

Reviews, as always, are welcomed and much appreciated.


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